


Abaddon. Or, 'An Elegy on Love'

by pearypie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That shortsighted Gryffindor—James Potter—will happily be tainting his entire bloodline in the next few months. He's marrying a mudblood." She scowled in disgust. "What a fool."</p><p>Snape's expression was neutral, his voice mild. "I don't suppose they have a tapestry to blast him off of?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abaddon. Or, 'An Elegy on Love'

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep./But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep._ \- Robert Frost

* * *

Bergamot. His entire house smelled of bergamot because Bellatrix Lestrange didn't like any other drink Snape had to offer _except_ earl grey tea. She had requested the drink personally, without bite, and it was the most he could hope for when it came the exclusively volatile pureblood heiress. Discussing the Dark Lord's plans always excited her to extremes—Snape himself would label her giddy if he didn't fear for his life. (Occlumency. She was so _good_ at it.) Tonight would be another dragging, lurid account of infiltration, deception, and assassination—the Dark Lord was growing more impatient with the slow progress of things thanks to Dumbledore and the Order.

Impatience. Snape inwardly scoffed. How _common_.

He was ensconced on a dark vermillion recliner so deeply shaded that in the dim candlelight, it looked like a throne of aged blood—spilled and wrecked over black leather. The mahogany coffee table was neatly arranged with a silver tea set and _The Daily Prophet_ , the biased Malfoy-owned newspaper, was turned upside down beside a decanter of sugar. In his own spidery hands, Snape was reading an ancient tomb so old that the lettering had begun to fade and the pages, yellow. Bellatrix was a vain, theatrical creature and would no doubt show up twenty minutes late just because she could.

He paid it no heed. Silence was a blissful emptiness he had come to appreciate—far away from the brawls of Hogwarts and the acrid, shrill cries of Death Eaters. Snape's tolerance for socialization was already low and his patience—limited and black—was wearing thin from listening to the chatter of mongrels and half-wits.

The only time he'd preferred the company of another in favor of his silvery silence was…no. His dark eyes momentarily paused and, with great frustration, Snape realized he'd been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes.

_The roots of the sanguinaria blossom may be applied—through careful and moderate dosage in regards to the toxicity of the root itself—to the treatment of respiratory related inflictions by both spell and sickness. Though primarily sourced as an effective emetic reliever, the bloodroot—_

Snape closed his eyes, feeling a thousand years of crushing repression wash over his dark form. He was wary, and not even the soothing monotony of analytical potions could alleviate his war ravaged mind. Something brought to the pit of his stomach a feeling of deep and sudden unease—the feeling one gets when they realize that the blade has found its next target. Twisting and coiling, the slashed flesh of Snape's sanity bled with gumption, clotted by insanity.

Was he going mad? There was a sense of irrevocable change perfuming the air—spicing it as cinnamon does, taking hold of one's lungs. A burning open flame.

Without thinking, Snape waved his wand hand and the limp newspaper leapt into the air, gently floating onto Snape's lap.

_The Daily Prophet._

Snape didn't even know what he was looking for, only that he was looking for _something_. Something of great value—maybe the Carrow twins had gotten too carried away? Amycus' arrogance knew no bounds, especially when paired with his equally vicious sister and a few dunderheaded recruits. Was Rosier going be removed from Wizengamot because of _that scandal_? The girl had been _fifteen_ but Nott—for all his frigid pride—had made sure no one spoke a word of anything to anyone.

What was this feeling that was driving him to the brink? He felt tempered, tethered, thrown off balance—like fire ants had crawled onto his naked skin and begun to burn through flesh and bone.

Gritting his teeth, Snape hoped Bella needed only a few more moments before _gracing_ him with her presence. He needed a distraction and even Bellatrix Lestrange's tirades were preferable to—

No.

No, no, no, no, no, _NO._

Not this, Snape felt as if the air had been knocked out of him—his lungs collapsed. Anything but _this_.

_POTTER HEIR ENGAGED! Elite Auror Set to Marry Hogwarts Sweetheart!_

And below it, printed in black and white, was a moving photograph of that blasphemous Gryffindor and…Lily. Her heart shaped face, pale perfect skin…a beaming smile so filled with joy it all but split Snape's heart in two. She was clutching Potter's left arm, comfortably tucked by his side as if she belonged there, no sign of their childhood animosity in sight. Her body against his, a strapless gown of some shimmering material caressing her body…

Potter was all pomp and circumstance. She was ebullience and spirit. Whereas he was a narrow-minded bigot, Lily was a wide eyed wonderer—a seeker of knowledge with a too big heart and gentle hand. Snape knew that Lily had reconciled herself with Potter and his gang by the end of their Seventh Year but he had no idea that…that anything beyond _tolerance_ was felt on her part. Oh, it was obvious that Potter was in love with her but Snape had always thought—had always expected—one day, _one day_ , he and Lily could make amends.

He would show her his sincere regret for having hurled those words in her face, tossing kindness and friendship aside in favor of power and position. But wasn't that why he was a Slytherin? _Lily, you KNOW me. You know I would never do anything to hurt you, that what I said I didn't mean—please…what little honor I have, I dedicate to you and only you..._

There wasn't much left of Snape's heart, truly. It was a tattered, ragged thing—all mismatched and undone, seams split and cloth soiled. There wasn't very much of him at all. But what little he had…what feeble control of himself he wrought, he devoted to her. To Lily Evans of the sunset hair and emerald eyes. To Lily Evans of courage and fight; bravery, fidelity, and love.

To Lily Evans.

Half a league he had left behind, placing himself in her hands; selfishly wanting Lily's forgiveness without first giving apology. He wasn't sure how much of himself he could spare, not when she held all his devotion—shot over with smoke; sanguine and stained. It was all he could give.

* * *

Bellatrix apparated to the pitiful muggle neighborhood of Severus Snape's childhood, grimacing when she was forced to pick her way through a patch of silver thistles and salt green weeds. She abhorred his choice of venue but the bastard insisted on it, claiming that Spinners End was his home and Bellatrix—through a long and arduous process—had given up on argument. Their master approved of Severus and the Death Eaters needed his potions. It was enough to keep him alive.

She rapped on his door twice, in quick succession, before the lumbering piece of wood swung open and Bellatrix was greeted by Snape's dour face and downturned lips.

 _Typical._ She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she kicked the door shut behind her, ebony wand in hand.

"Your grimace." Bellatrix sneered. "Have you no mind to do anything other than vegetate? You look like a bloody _corpse_."

"Your intuition and observation are, as always, scintillating." He returned dryly, black eyes dull.

She flounced down on the seat opposite him, smoothing her violet skirts because there was little else to do. "What have you got for me tonight?"

"Earl grey."

"I wasn't referring to the _tea_ , you moron. I meant—you _know_ what I meant."

"Hn." His tone was apathetic, though she detected a streak of contempt. "You'll be needed at the Ministry towards the end of next week. Avery and Selwyn's terms are nearly up and considering the former's failed legislation last time…" he trailed off and Bellatrix nodded, understanding. "Furthermore, the Dark Lord is designing another raid though this one will be larger in both size and populace. We'll be leaving the suburban areas in favor of towns and his lordship wants to make an impression." He looked Bellatrix dead in the eye. "We're infiltrating Hogsmeade in three months time, _exactly_."

 _Three months!_ Bellatrix could have laughed; adrenaline rushed through her veins and she felt undiluted reverence towards their Dark Lord. Always clever, always so _right_. She'd follow him to the ends of the earth if he'd asked—no, she immediately corrected, he didn't even _need_ to ask. She would _know_ , on instinct.

One day, Bellatrix vowed, she would surpass _every single one_ of these mediocre wizards—she would have the Dark Lord's confidence and would never again have to rely on anyone—especially Severus Snape—for intelligence. She would surpass them _all_.

* * *

From the corner of his eye, Snape saw Bellatrix's glimmering violet eyes darken and knew she wanted mobilization—the sooner the better. How it must have wounded her pureblood pride, to come to _him_ for information.

Glancing at an aged timepiece on the mantel, Snape snapped his fingers and the silver teapot sprung to action. Two simmering cups of caramel colored earl grey tea appeared before himself and Bellatrix; hers was followed by a single ounce of cream and one lump of sugar. His was left plain.

The scent of bergamot and spice must have awakened Bellatrix from her trance for he found her eyes steady again, lips curved.

"Read the _Prophet_ yet, Snape?" She asked, voice mocking as it always was.

"I've no time for idle gossip."

She grinned viciously. "Neither do I though at times it does prove entertaining."

"How so?"

"That shortsighted Gryffindor—James Potter—will happily be tainting his entire bloodline in the next few months. He's marrying a _mudblood_." She scowled in disgust. "What a fool."

"I don't suppose they have a tapestry to blast him off of?"

The glare Bellatrix fixed him was murderous. Snape himself was surprised—he was never so tactless but then again, Lily Evans had never really been a topic of conversation between the two of them.

He watched as she slammed her teacup down, rattling the silver saucer and possibly denting it as well. "Remember where you stand, _half-blood_." Bellatrix snarled. "I'll send you straight to Abaddon if you say another _word_."

"Of course." Snape returned mildly. He felt little guilt for angering Bella.

After all, there wasn't much of him left to feel anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A little peek into how I thought Snape learned of Lily's engagement. There's always something so intoxicating about unrequited love. As always, feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Sanguinaria: also referred to as the bloodroot flower. Largely considered toxic but can also be used to treat a large number of ailments. Causes an allergic reaction when in contact with the skin and is not suitable for bouquets. (Idk, I thought it'd suit Snape.)
> 
> "Half a league he had left behind": references Alfred Lord Tennyson's 'Charge of the Light Brigade' poem.
> 
> Abaddon: place of the condemned.


End file.
